Blood Trail
by Cheryl W
Summary: Blood, it's a liquid Dean's an expert at identifying on sight. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Blood Trail

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Just a little rambling of mine that I posted on my LJ account. However, it felt like I might as well have put it out space, that I was broadcasting it to nobody. So I'm returning to my normal habitat…have I said how much I love everyone at !

Summary: Blood, it's a liquid Dean's an expert at identifying on sight. No slash.

When he slips on something on the floor of the dinky convenient store, he curses the laziness of the kid at the cash register. Until he looks down, sees the liquid underfoot, liquid he's an expert at identifying on sight. Blood. He's almost reaching for his gun that's not in his waist, about ready to follow the blood trail to whatever evil SOB is lurking between the dust coated box of cornflakes and the expired rack of candy boxes when it dawns on him that the top of his boot, it's not brown anymore, it's red. And that same liquid, it's not dripping onto his boot, it's a nice steady flow steaming onto the boot onto the floor.

'What the' but the expletive gets caught in his throat as his eyes track up his jean clad leg, note the darker hue to the fabric starting mid thigh. Instincts take over then, have him making a beeline for the bathroom on legs that are functioning just fine, great in fact. Slamming through the door, he's at the sink in the next stride, is turning the handle on the paper towel dispenser like there's a prize. When the paper is long enough to touch the floor he tears it off and unceremoniously crumples it into his hand.

Pressing the wadded papertowel against his upper thigh, to the small, friggin' trivial wound he got in the hunt, he growls at the sudden surge of agony that shoots down his leg like an electric current. Can't believe the towel is soaked already with blood that it's oozing out onto his hand. '_So much for clotting_,' he internally grumbles as he angrily flings the saturated towel to the floor and gets another floor length supply of the towel, wets it this time and presses it, without mercy, on the wound, causing a choked cry of pain to slip past his defenses.

The water logged towel only turns the blood into a thinner river down his leg, makes the towel soaked with water and blood disintegrate in his hand. Discarding the towel onto the floor to, he strips off his button down shirt, wraps it around his leg wound, pulls it tight like it's a tourniquet. Fear starting to turn the taste in his mouth as metallic as his blood, he watches as blood seeps into the fabric, turning everything red, fabric strand by fabric strand.

And it's a hard revelation, to know he needs help, that he's about a few pints away from dying in some stop-and-go-mart's bathroom. He intends to step out of the bathroom, scream for the punk kid at the counter to get his brother from the car, but his body, it is in full revolt. His step turns into a collapse to his knees, blood loss causing his equilibrium to desert him and his strength vamooses with it.

He's kneeling in his own blood, not even something new but this time he's going for the bonus round, wonders vaguely if he lost more blood with the hellhounds, thinks he should ask Sam. '_Sam_,' his mind snaps to thoughts of his brother, of Sam, the real Sam who he just got back from Hell. Sam who he was supposed to be a rock for, to make sure that wall never ever came down. Sam, who was waiting for him in the Impala in store's parking lot. Sam, who wasn't more than twenty five yards away from where he knelt but it might as well be the valley in the Grand Canyon.

His phone's not even on him, is sitting in the car where he left it. And the bathroom door knob, it's out of his blood coated reach. As he uses all of his strength to press both of his hands against the unchecked flow of blood, he knows it's too late. He's an expert at death, having dealt it out and experienced it more than anyone else ever has. He knows how it feels, the way the void sloshes over you, the helplessness of it, how final it is…should be, might be this time.

And in that moment, he wishes Sam wasn't Sam. That soulless Sam was in the Impala, not giving a damn when or _if_ he ever came back from his little excursion into the convenient store. Because the last thing on God's green earth he wants to do is hurt Sam, not this Sam, not _his_ Sam. '_But it's what I do best – hurt people_,' he bitterly thinks as dark spots float in his vision, as he feels himself topple forward, or maybe its backward but most certainly its down.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

I'm not sure if I'm writing more on this one or not. I might let it stand as an angsty one shot.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Blood Trail

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Wow! Thanks for the encouragement to continue. I really don't think I can match the first part but I'll giving it a try for those wonderful people who asked for more. Also, this might come off too emotional but a kind man who was such a light in my life passed away today and part of how I deal with things is to write. So as sad as I am at his passing, I rejoice at the certainty that he's free from his pain and has found peace and joy in Heaven.

Summary: Blood, it's a liquid Dean's an expert at identifying on sight. No slash.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

It's inconceivable, that hands catch him before he hits the floor, that he hears the voice he loves best before he breathes his last. Not a facsimile of that voice, void of love and life and hope, but the real voice, the one that radiates with all those things, things he's missed so badly the last couple of months…last year and a half.

"Dean! No…no."

The abyss of pain in his brother's voice, it's his fault, he knows that. Dredging up enough strength to raise his head, to get his last sight of Sam, it's both a blessing and a curse, seeing the fear flooding Sam's eyes, knowing that _this_ Sam loves him, cares about him.

Gentle, urgent hands maneuver him onto his back, but he's not left to lie on the cold bathroom tile in his own blood, instead, he's resting against warmth, against strength, against Sam. And then Sam's hands replaces his, is pressing on the femoral artery wound. The agony that comes, it is too overwhelming for him to not give a small whimpering cry, causes his vision to repopulate with the black spots that are bleeding together, will soon wash away his sight, his life.

Slightly turning his head, he sees Sam's profile next to his, hates the tears that are freely dropping from his brother's welling eyes. He has always hated when Sam cries, when he makes Sam cry. Dropping his head forward, he lets it come to rest on Sam's cheek. "I'm sorry Sammy" and he's uncertain if it's tears or blood filling his throat. If it even matters, if anything matters except that he's leaving Sam when Sam needs him, wants him to stay.

The chest under him inhales sharply and then exhales in a ragged sob and he knows this might be the worst thing he's ever done to Sam. To get him back only to desert him, to leave him to keep the horrors of Hell locked away in his head all on his own. When Sam's hand cups the back of his neck and his arm pulls him tighter against Sam's chest, he knows there is only one reason Sam would arrest his frantic pressure on his wound …because his brother knows what he does. It's too late for an intervention. He's dying, soon. But not alone.

"Dean," and he hears the plea and the adoration in the shattered call of his name, feels his brother's tears splash onto the top of his head. "You can't _go," _and that tone he remembers from their childhood, a small, innocent, young Sam beseeching him to do the impossible. "Why bring me back only to _leave _me."

And he can't let Sam think he wants to go, wants to leave him, ever. Lifting his head, it's painful, seeing the anger, the agony in Sam's features. It's effort, to speak, to force the words out "Didn't mean to, Sam. Want to…._stay_." Oh how he wants to stay, wants to right his wrongs, to not let more harm come to his brother, to shower Sam with chick flick moments that he never bestowed on the other.

As if he needs more proof that what he wants he can't get, his vision tunnels and he loses the strength to keep his head up. Collapsing limply against Sam's strong frame, he closes his eyes but clings onto the thinnest strand of life still in him. He does it for Sam, because Sam's not ready to let him go, not yet.

There's a shuttering exhale and then Sam's shredded voice washes over him, brings light to the darkness he's slowly fading into. "I'm with you, Dean. I'm right here, man. No place that I would rather be but with you, you should know that. You're not alone."

And he knows what Sam can't bring himself to say, that he won't let him die alone.

"Thanks, Sammy," his words are slurred, another part of his body is shutting down. He's cold, shivers in his brother's embrace, is pulled tighter into that strength that he's relied on his entire life, even when Sam was too young to know his very presence was a gift to him.

There isn't demand or anger in his brother's next words, words that aren't meant for him. There is only an unrestrained, aching entreaty. "Cas, if you can hear me, Dean needs you. He's…_dying._ I know God has every right to turn his back on me, to punish me but…Please, Cas. Please!"

Sam's last word is a choked shout, vibrates through the chest he's lying against, renders the world apart with its agony. And he wants to say again that he's sorry, for so many things, for letting Sam in Hell for so long, for leaving so quickly now that Sam is back, for letting so many things go wrong for them, between them. But words are beyond him now. He can barely swallow, every breath is a battle. His time with Sam is slipping away. And it's not been long enough, will never have been long enough.

"I forgive you, Dean. For leaving me."

He doesn't know he needs the absolution until Sam gives it to him. Doesn't realize it's what he's been holding on for until he hears the words, knows that Sam won't hate him for leaving, for not staying with him. That Sam forgives even his worst transgressions. Always has.

Suddenly he feels it, Sam's love for him and with it comes a peacefulness he's never known. So he lets himself go, accepts that dying isn't the same thing as failing. Not to Sam. And that's all he needs to know.

Then, he sees light, and it's like watching a star burst into existence, its warmth, its brightness stretching infinitely out. He squints against the brilliance of it, thinks he does. And then the light draws in on itself, comes together like a thousand wayward stars, and takes a familiar shape: Castiel. But not like he's ever seen Cas before. He's brighter than Anna when she got her grace back, his light is purer than hers in every sense. And his wings, they aren't shadows on a barn ceiling, are visible. They are as glistening as a thousand diamonds, white but not soft, sharp, fragile yet strong, beautiful.

"Cas?" he breathes in wonder, eyes nearly tearing as he looks into his friend's radiant countenance, finds that the angel's eyes, they haven't changed, they hold the same compassion, the same affection for him. And when Castiel speaks, it's not with Jimmie's vocals but his own but there is no pain in the hearing, is only the offering of unimaginable peace, love.

"Dean, I'm sorry I was not quick enough to spare you this pain."

"Pain?" he stammers, his physical pain forgotten, washed away by the essence of his surrounding, of it's holiness. He leans into the power and grace flowing out of Cas's hand as it rests on his cheek.

"This place, heaven, it isn't like Zachariah showed you. You can have true peace here, happiness. And when Sam's life is at an end, he will be with you and it will feel like no time has passed, that you were never apart."

"For me," he says, can't help thinking of Sam, alone, holding his bloody corpse in the stop and go mart's bathroom floor.

Cas, as faithful as always, speaks the truth. "Yes, for you. Not for Sam," because he knows on whom his human friend's thoughts dwell.

"Is the choice…."

"I will let it be yours, Dean," the angel's voice not betraying what he thinks Dean should decide.

"Do you even have to ask?" he says, finds that smirking is not impossible in heaven, and neither is getting a bona fide smile from an angel of the Lord.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is still smiling but the angel is contained again in Jimmie's form, his wings are gone and his brilliance is an ethereal glow that's fading away. But the affection in the angel's eyes glows even brighter as their eyes meet. Then Cas drops his finger from his forehead and looks to his left.

He knows that the arms wrapped around him, the cheek he's leaning against, it's his brother's. And he would recognize that hitching sob of grief and relief anywhere. In Hell or in Heaven.

"Dean," his brother tremulously beckons.

They are a thousand things he wants to says, but deep down he knows that there is only one thing Sam needs to hear. "I'm with you, Sammy." 

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

THE END

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

See, I didn't really kill off poor Dean.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.

"In my Father's house are many mansions..I go to prepare a place for you." – John 14:2

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you." – John 14:27


End file.
